we’ve been on him.”
“I’d like to be rough on him,” Jason said. “The guy’s a prick.”
“That, he is. But we’ll get him. His arrogance and his lawyer’s arrogance will be their undoing. In a way, I’m relieved.”
“I’m out of here. See you in the a.m.”
“Night, Jason.”
As her young deputy departed, Emily winced at the thought of the blue tie that Cary McConnell had been wearing. It had been held in place by an antique tie tack with his initials. She wondered if it was a coincidence or a maybe even a kind of snarky sartorial wink directed at her. She’d purchased the tie and the tack—the only gifts she’d given to him.
She wished now that she’d asked for them back.
Chapter Eleven
Emily Kenyon pulled the Crown Vic to the side of the road. The Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department hadn’t yet ordered the hands-free phones that were a state safety requirement at the beginning of the New Year. She answered her ringing phone. The young woman on the line was one of those who masked her nervousness with inappropriate laughter. The end of every sentence was punctuated with a giggle or quick laugh. Throughout her years as a detective, Emily Kenyon had interviewed so many of her ilk. Also, the criers, the derailed train-of-thoughters, and the story-changers. The story-changers were always the worst. As long as people kept the basics of their information consistent, they’d probably make it through the trial process.
A crier was better than a laugher, though. Laughers frequently turned off members of the jury. What’s so funny about homicide? A crier could win a case for either side.
“My friend says I should call because we saw something that might help your case,” the woman said, laughing.
“What is your name? What case?” Emily felt a little annoyed, but Gloria had taken the call and said that the girl “might have what we’re looking for—a real lead.”
“Steffi Johansson,” she said. Again, the laugh. “I think Mitch Crawford was in our shop just after Thanksgiving. He was a total freak, too.” Another laugh.
“I see,” Emily said. “How about I come out to see you. Are you at your shop?”
“Yes, I am. It’s Café Patisserie on the north end of Griffin Avenue, just off the highway.”
Emily knew the place. “I’ll be there in a twenty minutes. Tell your boss you’ll need a break.”
“I am the boss,” Steffi said, letting out a short laugh. “At least, for this shift.”
Steffi Johansson was waiting just inside the front door of the café when Emily arrived. “I made you a mocha, double-shot, no whip.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Emily said, taking the paper cup and moving to a table by the front window, away from another patron reading USA Today and sipping a chai latte.
Steffi smiled. “I nailed your drink, didn’t I?”
Emily hated mochas. “That you did,” she said.
The young blonde laughed. “I have a real knack for that. Don’t ask me why. I just know what people want.”
“Well then, you know what I want,” Emily said, not caring that her segue was silly and obvious. Finesse wasn’t needed with Steffi Johansson. The girl was annoying as hell.
“Right. OK.” She sat down. “It was late one night, just before closing. Cherie and I were working and wanted to get out of here on account of the snow. We were kind of ticked that he came in.”
“Cherie?”
“Cherie Parks, she was here that night, too.”
“All right. And you think it was Mitch Crawford that you saw?”
Steffi sipped her own concoction, a frozen ice cream drink that had about a million calories and zero nutritional value. “Pretty sure,” she said. “I saw him on TV. Actually, Cherie saw him on one of those TVs at Seattle’s airport and called me. She doesn’t work here anymore,” she said, with a laugh. “She’s in Hawaii, lucky bitch. She got fired for coming in late too many times. The owners are really strict.”
Emily knew the type. She was pretty strict herself. “Yes, so Cherie made the connection between the TV and the customer in your shop. How is it that you remember him? It’s been awhile.”
Steffi swirled her plastic straw in the cup. “He was a total freak. One of those customers who thinks he’s so hot and hits on you. Not only that, he had a cut on his head or somewhere. Yeah, I remember that.”
“A cut?” The revelation interested Emily.
“Yeah, he went into the bathroom while I made him his drink. He seemed a little put off that I even mentioned the blood.”
“So he was bloody?”
Steffi pointed to a spot on her forehead. “Around here. Said he hurt himself cutting a Christmas tree out in the woods. That—besides the fact that he was a creepy letch—is the reason I remembered him at all.”
“Because he had been cutting down a Christmas tree?”
“Because he said that’s what he’d been doing.”
Emily tilted her head and lifted her shoulders slightly. “I don’t follow.”
“He didn’t have a tree in the back of his pickup. We thought it was odd. Like, why would he say he’d been out getting a Christmas tree and was on his way home, when he didn’t have a tree?”
Emily liked what she was hearing. The timing made sense. Steffi’s details could be believed. The right details—the cut, the lack of a tree, the man’s attitude—seemed to be in sync with Mitch Crawford and the disappearance of his wife.
“The prosecutor will probably want to do a lineup tomorrow,” Emily said. “Would you be able to come in or should I send a deputy to pick you up?”
Steffi looked around nervously. “Oh, I’ll be there, I guess. Just tell me when. If the guy who came in here that night is there, I’ll remember. I never forget a customer’s face. Or a name, if they tell me. Actually, we’re rated on how many customer names we know. They want us to make everyone feel like we give a crap about them when really all we want to do is serve them a latte and get them out of here.”
Emily didn’t doubt that, and she waited a beat while Steffi did her little laugh. She looked around. The whole place was set up to be cozy, but not too comfortable. Turnover was everything to a place like Café Patisserie.
“Can you describe the truck he was driving? Anything about it? Plate? Decals? Color?”
Steffi shook her head, her blond hair bouncing against her shoulders. “I’m not good at that. Maybe blue. Or black. Newish, I think. I’m not sure.”
Emily got up to leave. She smiled at the young woman. She wasn’t much, but she was
